


My Blood Sings Your Name

by fishoutofcamelot



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, Mutual Pining, True Love's Kiss, Unrequited Love, and they arent even in the same season, can someone do something about the fact that vivian is still cursed?, in which i ship two characters that never actually meet in canon, thats what i shouted into the void before writing this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:27:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26594419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishoutofcamelot/pseuds/fishoutofcamelot
Summary: At long last, Vivian's curse is broken.
Relationships: Mary/Vivian
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	My Blood Sings Your Name

Mary has been washing the same table for twenty minutes. Its surface is rough and old, and she's got several splinters wedged into her fingers by now, and her washcloth has long since lost its dampness.

The tavern is empty, save a small smattering of the usual midday miserables. John the farmer sits at the counter, nursing a pint and thinking about his son who drowned in the river just last month. Hellery the milkmaid keeps her head bowed low while she tries to convince her husband to go home, flinching every time he moves too suddenly or speaks too loudly. Janis the tailor stares into the nearest lantern and mutters under his breath that it wouldn't hurt at all if he put his hands in the flames. 

And Mary keeps wiping circles on the table, dragging her cloth along the grainy wood, trying not to think, trying to delay the inevitable. If she gets enough splinters in her hands, maybe she'll need Alice to look at her too, allowing her to forget about today for just a few more hours.

But she can't. Mary's always been an honest sort, always straight-forward. Not to sort to lie to people, much less herself. Her mother used to get upset with her lack of a filter, but her father used to think it was funny.

Would he find it funny now, if he were still here? If Uther's men hadn't...

Whatever. It doesn't matter. No sense in asking what-ifs, right? If you focus on what _might_ be, you'll never learn what _will_ be - that's what mother used to say.

Footsteps down the stairs. They're light and poised, and she wouldn't have heard them if she wasn't specifically listening for them.

Alright, Mary. Calm your nerves. It's probably not her. There are lots of people staying at the tavern, using the rooms upstairs, sleeping. Lots of them have light and poised footsteps. Lots of them -

"Mary?"

Dammit.

She didn't know her uncle Carmenor very well before the Purge got to him - suspected affiliation with druids, they said, but since he never got a trial she'd never know for sure - but he always used to say "Damn the Triple Goddess!" whenever he was upset.

It was times like this that Mary wishes she knew who the Triple Goddess was, so she could damn them too.

Mary glances at the woman who'd just spoken. She doesn't have to, though. She knows exactly who it is, what she'll see.

Vivian, soft blonde hair in a frizzy plait, wearing a pair of tattered riding trousers and one of Mary's old tunics. The tunic had been tailored to fit Mary's proportions, not Vivian's, so it billows around her ivy-vine frame like the sail of a ship in the wind.

A bag is slung over her shoulder, one of Mary's, and a walking stick that Mary had helped her carve is in her hand. There is a crude, lumpy rendering of a human face carved into the handle of it - the object of Vivian's affections, Prince Arthur of Camelot.

Thirteen months ago, Vivian had been found in the outskirts of town. She was malnourished and gaunt, just a death-knoll away from emaciating into a skeleton and then into dust. Her skin was smudged with mud and blood and vomit, horrible black blisters cutting into her barefoot soles and blood spurting from the broken bone jutting out of her knee.

Mary had taken her in, gotten Alice's help in treating the woman's injuries, and washed away all the grime concealing her features - only to discover a diamond underneath.

Some of the men in the village were attracted by her elegant silks, her regal jewelry, her air of nobility. Others were attracted by how dainty and ladylike she was.

Mary saw the value in all that, of course. She saw the beauty in Vivian's glorious pale locks, felt her legs go slack at the sight of Vivian's cloudy blue eyes, bit her cheeks while every fiber in her body begged to gather Vivian into her arms and never let go - but that wasn't what intrigued her. That wasn't what had condemned Mary's heart forevermore.

No, it was what Vivian said when she first woke up.

Two days of fussing over an unconscious body, Vivian's eyes fluttered open. Mary hovered over her. And upon looking at Mary, the first thing she had said with her raspy, dehydrated voice was, "You have too many freckles."

Mary had fallen over her chair in laughter.

Over the next year, they helped Vivian regain her strength. Alice bandaged her leg, Mary carved her some crutches and gave her a place to stay, Ganeyda offered her a job as a seamstress, and Vivian complained the entire time.

"These clothes are so itchy."

"My leg hurts. You must not be a very good healer."

"This food tastes like muck, and the water's not much better."

"You want me to work? Like a peasant? What do you take me for?!"

"Why can't you just make dinner for me? I'm royalty!"

"No, don't tell my father I'm here, he'll send me home."

"Horses smell gross. This whole village smells gross."

"Why can't you just build me a carriage, Mary? I want to go to Camelot."

"How come Arthur hasn't rescued me yet?"

That last one was the most popular. Arthur this, Arthur that. All she ever wanted to talk about was the prince of Camelot - his glorious hair, his chiseled jaw, his flawless unmentionables. They were soulmates, apparently, cruelly ripped apart by her father who didn't approve their betrothal. So she had run away with the intention of running right back to Arthur, only to slip down a cliff during a rainstorm and shatter her leg.

Several times in Vivian's recovery, Mary had whispered into Ganeyda's ear, "With a personality like that, I can only imagine why Arthur hasn't rescued her." And they'd laugh about it, and laugh over Vivian's ignorance about how wells work.

But over time, Vivian sharpened up. Her leg healed, and she straightened out. She never got over her princely infatuation, but she did figure out how to focus on other, more important things. Like healing. And earning her keep. Because princess or not, Mary and Ganeyda were in agreement about their no-royal-freeloaders policy. If you could afford to benefit from taxation of the poor, you could afford to mend a few of their shirts.

Or rather, carve a few wood blocks. Because under Mary's reluctant instruction, Vivian had blossomed into quite the wood-carving prodigy. All of her carvings had Arthur's face incorporated somehow, because of course they did, but Mary still put them on the shelf in her bedroom and looked at them when she was feeling particularly masochistic.

Vivian's tantrums had eventually petered out as well. Dainty hands were replaced with worn, callused ones. Crisp, perfect skin was replaced with a layer of 'peasant grime' - Vivian's words. Her perfumic smell of lemongrass and apples was quickly replaced with the murky 'peasant stench' - also Vivian's words. And though she kept her gown folded neatly under her bed, Vivian had begun wearing some of the clothes the women in the village had all lent her.

She never lost her sharp tongue and general bluntness, and her all-encompassing passion for Arthur never truly faded - but as time went on, more and more of herself eked out. Her love for entertaining children. Her tendency to pester Mary into exploring the woods with her, only for her injured leg to bother her halfway through, forcing Mary to carry her the rest of the way. Her light and springy laugh that sounded like birds chirping, like sunlight dancing, like all the joy in the world contained in a delicate, snobby package. She had toned down on the classism after a while, too, favouring on the side of compassion more often than disgust nowadays.

And Mary was - _is_ \- hopelessly in love with her.

It took her a while to realize it. The flutters she gets in Vivian's presence, that squelching, squeezing feeling in her throat that she should hate but actually craves, that shake in her hands whenever Vivian presses too closely against her body - it took her longer than she'd like to admit to realize what that was.

But Vivian didn't - _doesn't_ \- reciprocate. Sure, Mary's the one who received all the wooden trinkets Vivian would carve - but all of them had Arthur's face etched into them. Sure, Mary's the one Vivian always sought when she was cold and sick and bored - but that's just because Mary's the one who took her in. Sure, Mary's jokes were always the ones that made Vivian laugh the loudest, but that's just because Mary's the only person with a sense of humor from here to Gedref.

Vivian loves Arthur. Adores him. Obsesses over him. To a disturbing extent, actually. She mentions him at least once in every conversation. She dreams about him every night, crying out his name while she sleeps as if it's divine revelation that dances on her lips instead of merely a name.

Mary likes to sit in her room and pretend. Pretend it's her own not-so-gentle prodding that gets Vivian out of bed every morning, and not the prospect of seeing Arthur again. Pretends Vivian is eager to heal not so she can continue on to Camelot, but so she can dance with Mary at the upcoming harvest festival. Pretends that when Vivian stares wistfully up at the clouds, she's thinking not of Arthur but of Mary.

Admittedly, Vivian is not as obsessed as she used to be. It's almost like - like she has moments of clarity, sometimes, when Arthur is just a distant memory and her mind can think about other things for once.

The moments never last, of course, but Mary always cherishes them. When it's just Mary and Vivian, throwing wet laundry at each other by the riverside. When it's just Mary and Vivian, sitting out in an open field and carving chunks of wood into whatever their whims demand, pointing at the stars overhead. Mary and Vivian, lying by the long-expired fireplace, staring at the ceiling in the dead of night and humming a melody between them, with only the cold floor beneath them as their witness.

Moments like those had given Mary hope. Hope that one day, Vivian could forget about Arthur once and for all - forget about him and remember her instead.

But Vivian is healed now, and she's leaving for Camelot today. And she's taking all of Mary's hopes and dreams with her.

"You heading off then, my lady?" Mary asks. Her voice cracks. The washcloth is wrought between her trembling hands.

Vivian at least has the decency to look sad about it. "I'm afraid so. I'll miss you, Mary." But before Mary can relish in that tiny scrap of reciprocation, the fondness in Vivian's eyes turns vapid. "But I have to return to Arthur, my one true love."

Mary swallows, but the lump in her throat won't wash away. "I understand." She gives Vivian a hearty pat on the shoulder. "You give the prince my regards, will you?"

Vivian's nod is equal parts earnest and inattentive. She shakes her head, snapping away whatever Arthur-centric reverie she'd been lost in. "I...really enjoyed our time together, May." And Mary's heart clenches at the sound of her nickname, the nickname Vivian gave her and only Vivian is allowed to use. "More than I wanted to."

They both laugh at that. And Mary knows why her own laughter feels strained, but she can't get a read on why Vivian's would be the same. Or for that matter, why the look in her eyes is so confused. So troubled. Shouldn't she be happy? She's finally returning to her beloved Arthur.

She should be happy for Vivian. She shouldn't be so selfish as to wish Vivian would stay here, at the tavern, and be happy with Mary. But who would want a talkative, blunt, boring barmaid when they could have the literal prince of Camelot?

Who would want _Mary?_ With every passing day, the list grows smaller. And it's with a heavy, heavy heart - so heavy that it cracks under its own unbearable weight - that Mary forces herself to cross Vivian off the list too.

"I'm glad I could make your stay so enjoyable," Mary says. Then, because she hates herself apparently, she gives Vivian a cheeky wink. " _Your highness_."

Vivian laughs, and Mary's chest aches. But she doesn't mind the pain. Not when she's being enveloped in a blanket of laughter, laughter, laughter. This is a good kind of ache, she figures.

When their laughter dies down, Vivian's face returns to the troubled expression from before.

"Something eating you, my lady?"

Vivian hesitates before responding. "I...I feel as if I'm...losing something...something important." She stands there, wavering in place, brow furrowed and eyes unfocused. But then, like the snap of a finger, everything shutters back into its usual lovestruck look. "Time! I'm losing time just sitting here, talking to you, when I've got Arthur waiting for me."

If it's possible for a broken thing to become pulverized, that would be the state of Mary's heart. "Of course. He...Arthur's waiting for you." She tries to make her smile as convincing as possible. "You should go to him."

"I should."

"Well, then what are you waiting for?" She gestures to the door, and her muscles burn. "Go out there and rescue your prince charming, my lady!"

"I will!" Vivian cries, as exuberant and energetic as her good moods ever get. In a flurry of emotion and movement, Vivian wraps her arms around Mary in a hug.

The hug is quick. It lasts barely a few seconds. But as the presence of Vivian's skin on Mary's stains her flesh the colour of longing, it feels even quicker. Like the pinprick of a needle. Like a fraction of a moment. Her arms want more. The bones in her body squirm and scream out for more, more, more. The blood in her veins begs for the love and comfort and closeness to never end, sings the song of Vivian, Vivian, Vivian.

But Vivian's blood is singing a different song. Hers sings Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

Mary deprives herself of what she wants. She pushes Vivian away and struggles not to blush. "You stay safe out there, princess."

Vivian's exuberance sobers, and she gives Mary a solemn nod. Their noses are barely a handspan apart, and growing ever closer by the second. "Only if you do the same."

"Me?" She chuckles. "Not much danger comes from the life of a barmaid. But kings and queens and the like...that sort of thing is dangerous. You ought to watch yourself, Vivian. For me."

Oh god, the 'for me' was pushing it too far. Vivian's going to catch on, she's going to realize how Mary feels, and she's going to hate Mary forever. And Arthur will have Vivian and Mary will have no one.

"Still." Vivian's voice is odd. Mary tries not to focus on the layers of confusion, of passion, of rare clarity within it. "I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you."

Her hand is cupping Mary's cheek, and it takes every amount of self-control she has not to melt like wax at the touch. "Nor I you." She internally celebrates at how she didn't stammer once in saying as much.

Their faces are close. Their breaths intermingle, dance invisibly in the air between them. Vivian's walking stick now rests against the table, right alongside Mary's washcloth. Vivian's hand is on Mary's cheek. And oddly enough, though she can't recall putting it there, Mary's hand is likewise on Vivian's.

Their faces are close. So unbearably close.

Their lips are close. So unbearably close.

Until they aren't close at all, but rather touching. Until they're pressed together like two threads woven into a tight, inseparable knot. Weaving tighter, tighter, tighter and pressing closer, closer, closer.

Mary never registers what Vivian's lips feel like against her own. She never registers the feeling, and its sensation escapes her. All she can think about, focus on, feel, is the song in her blood. It's louder now. It clamors in her ears, and it trembles in her veins, and it causes her ribs to quake and her lungs to freeze.

_Vivian, Vivian, Vivian._

Nothing exists anymore. Just Mary and Vivian, and the song.

But then it hits her that Vivian doesn't feel the same. Her heart is tied to another person. Her mind is consumed with thoughts of someone else. The song in her blood is different.

_Arthur, Arthur, Arthur._

Which means Mary is kissing someone who is already spoken for.

Mary pushes away from Vivian. Her vision is foggy. Is she crying? She doesn't bother to check. All she knows is that her sight of Vivian is blurred by some kind of wet sheen covering her eyes and dribbling down her face.

"I'm so sorry," she rasps. "I'm so sorry, Vivian. I didn't mean -" She cuts herself off. Pushes past Vivian. Runs up the stairs. Never once bothering to look up from the floor and see Vivian's face. Because she can't bear to see the betrayal and anger that is inevitably there.

But if Mary had only looked, she wouldn't see betrayal or anger or disgust sewn in Vivian's features at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. Instead, she'd see the death of a horrible, horrible curse - and the birth of something wonderful in its place.

Vivian runs up the stairs. Her blood now sings the song of her heart.

_Mary, Mary, Mary._

**Author's Note:**

> As you can probably tell, romance ain't exactly my forte. And this is also the first kiss scene I've ever written! I've been writing for 10+ years, and this is the first one. Well, it was bound to happen eventually I guess.
> 
> You can blame @theandrogynousdragon on Tumblr for this, because they're the one who requested Marian content. Go follow them btw! 
> 
> And if you feel like it, follow me too @fishoutofcamelot
> 
> Have a lovely day, and thanks for reading <3


End file.
